The Specter of the Past

“We fled in fear, but found a land of hope. There is much to do, but we have all the tools we need.”

“Yes,” said the Specter of the Past. “You do.”

Panspermia

-What is so special about life, that we should inflict it upon our neighbor?-

The two of them watched the rockets being prepared. Grim irony there, in the ultimate in engineering and technology being used to transport the lowest, basest form of life. Microbes and bacteria were all that would survive a dying world and decaying civilization.

-If nothing else, then to witness- replied the other, and then a liquid shrug. -All this might be moot. Intelligent life may never evolve again-

Its companion looked about the crusted plains of Mars. -We can only hope-

Mono no aware

An elf sat with a skald in the middle of a faerie ring. “Tell me a tale to make me weep, and you shall go free,” the elf said with a twinkle. “Fail, and you stay here until you die.”

“Then here I shall stay,” the skald sighed. He looked sadly at the sky and said, “Fine weather today, isn’t it?”

The elf frowned, and thought. And thought. And then began to cry.

I Sang in My Chains Like the Sea

The villagers loved and hated the magician in equal measure. 

Loved his wondrous illusions, of green fields lying happily in the sun’s pleasure, of cool clear waters lapping gently along an idyllic river bank.

Hated for making them love a phantasm, a fantasy, or for reminding them it was one.

Three Fountains

Three fountains spring from the ground beneath the temple. 

Cup your hands, and take a drink, though you cannot drink but once. One for wisdom, one for knowledge, one for forgetfulness. 

I have searched all my life to find this place. But it’s funny. 

My hands are already wet.

Toxoplasmosis Parties

In spring, Maya gave birth to a perfectly healthy girl. She and her husband Paul were devastated. “You’re sure she’s not sick?” The doctor shook her head, No.

They tried everything: Dietary supplements, toxoplasmosis parties. Nothing worked, the child was immune.

Doomed to a life of safety, timidity, of happiness with small things. 

* * *

Brain parasites make you more entrepreneurial, apparently.

Bellerophon and the Bush

Hold still, my friend, this might sting. Well, definitely will. Anyway, rest a while, save your strength. You’ve had quite a fall there. Three miles if it was an inch, I reckon. You’re lucky to be alive, so hush, less weeping and cursing and struggling, more appreciation of the fact that I just saved your life.

The thorns might seem cruel to you—yes, yes, I am sorry about your eyes—but spare a thought for me, who took root and grew in a place where thorns are needed. Look around you—ah, sorry, that was insensitive. 

Ahem. 

Take this plain: Aleion, “The Wandering” they call it. Rain falls about as often as monster-killing heroes out here. I grow thorns not out of spite, but out of necessity, armoring myself against the trials of this world. There are half a hundred creatures that would love to crack me open and drink the moisture I hold inside. That may not seem like heroism to you, but it takes a different kind of courage to survive. Life is a resource, something to be harvested and expended when one is in need. 

A hero eh, the son of a king, favored of Athena. My word, my wonder. The nettles sting all the same though, don’t they?

We are not so different now, you and I, O Mighty Hero. What use is it to fight, when one is sightless, senseless, rooted in place? Now there is only surrender to the inevitable. Your life until now has been about struggle, but now you must learn to accept. Endurance and patience, rather than power and anger. Welcome the cool night air—you might as well, it comes regardless. 

Here’s a truth for you lad, a gritty, grainy truth from down here at the bottom of the world, coarse and rough like this plain, and that truth is your story was always going to end this way. 

A hero might do so much, more than a thousand other men, yet still be but a pebble in the desert, a drop of rain on this arid plain, soon evaporated, leaving no mark behind. A king, a killer, a hero, a husband, it matters not. It never mattered how much you achieved, it would always be wiped away in a moment. Your flight from persecution, your rise to fame, your fall from grace, all orchestrated by powers barely aware of your existence, your life as dependent as the lowliest bush on the Olympian skies to bring you life-giving rains.

You haven’t lain here more than 10 minutes, but already your fame begins to fade. Bellerophon? Who is he? They might name a ship for you, a small one. A minor statue in a minor town. 

There is no returning to kingship now, so put that from your mind. You’ve ridden your last winged steed ever, slain your last monster, said goodbye to your wife for the last time. I would say cherish the memories, but Chronos and the Fates are pitiless things, and will not leave you even that. 

You will grow thorns, great hero, and become and prickly as I. The skin will harden over your heart and hurts, and the memories will fade as surely as the scars.

Bellerophon and the Beast

Welcome, welcome.

Make yourself comfortable. The trip was pleasant, I take it? All downhill, of course. Never mind the dog, his barks are worse than his bites. You’d think he was the only one with three heads around here. Hmph. I’d offer you a drink, but then you’d forget everything and we’d have to go through the whole story again.

Not much to look at, am I now?

Typhon was my sire, who contested the rule of the cosmos with Olympian Zeus himself. While my major accomplishment was terrorizing a couple of villages in Anatolia.We begin life with such ambitions, do we not? Too late we learn, even for the daughter of a god, even for the son of a king, some trophies are beyond our grasp.

In my day, I was the most feared creature in existence. So savage and strange that none dared stand before me. Behold my fiery breath, which reaped armies like sheaves of wheat. Flee before my serpent-headed tail, the very touch of which is poison. Tremble at my lion’s visage, and gibber in madness at the goat’s head which arises from my back (don’t try to talk to him—deaf as a post and marginally less intelligent). 

These griffons, manticores and hippogriffs, hah, mere imitators. No sphinx was I, to shelter behind soft riddles and twisting wordplay—pure brute power I was, more harbinger of doom than mere physical presence. And yet, it is I, not they, who became a byword for all things illusory and unachievable.

Let that be a lesson to you, mortal: do not rely on the memories of men for your legacy. 

Bellerophon came on a winged horse. They all had something: Invulnerable but for the heel, a ball of string, a lion’s skin. A pack of cheats, the lot of them.

And he had the temerity to think this was all something deserved, as if he had won the winged steed on merit. Idiot boy was accused of sleeping with another man’s wife, got sent on a suicide mission and then fell asleep in a temple. The living embodiment of failing upwards, until of course he very suddenly and quite definitely wasn’t. 

The next time you see someone lauded as a hero, a champion, a strong man, remember Bellerophon. Remember what came of all of it in the end.

He said, I have come to slay you, ravager of Lycia. He said I was a blight, a pestilence, that he would scourge me from the land and make it whole again.

Trying to talk himself into it, I suppose. All this braggadocio and bluster serving just to show how thin his young and brittle courage was. I said, come down from your high horse and let’s talk about that.

He said, I am the son of Glaucus, beloved of Athena, tamer of Pegasus.

I said, that’s neat. I said, you will learn how little these things matter, should you live that long. I too, have a father, one that promised me the world.

He said, silence beast! And he pulled his iron war-helm down over his eyes, spurred his steed into the skies and nocked a goose-feathered arrow against his chest. 

It was not a glorious battle, I’m afraid. He flew high above, his arrows stinging like thorns, but my hide was too strong and he could do me no harm. But always he flew out of reach of claw and tail and tooth. A stalemate, as dignified as a horse trying to swat a gnat with its tail. Until, in my frustration, I opened wide my maw and let loose with a jet of flame.

Well. We all know how well that went.

He had a spear with a plug of lead, and thrust it down my open throat, where it ran red and melted into my gut. Do you have any idea what molten metal feels like, burning you form the inside? Suppose not, otherwise you’d be a resident here, not a visitor. It is. Unpleasant.

And then I awoke, if that’s the term, and found myself here. A fitting end for a monster, you say, as if your end will be any different.

The End of the Orcs

The orc tribes lived by a simple, savage rule: Anyone could challenge a chief, at a time and place of the challenger’s choosing. 

The warlords jostled for position, crushing underfoot the goblin-slaves, who suffered in silence and clutched their secret, hoarded hatreds to their hearts like gold.

Until the tribe stole the secrets of the gunpowder from the dwarves.

No one noticed the goblin approach. “I challenge you here, now,” he said, and from under his rags drew a long pistol. A flash, a roar, and he became king.

He ruled a fortnight, until someone made a blunderbuss.

The Power of Make-Believe

“Back off,” the boy said. “I’m not afraid to use this.” His hand was in his jacket pocket, tenting the material from the inside. 

“That’s just a crayon, kid,” the mugger laughed, before being blown off his feet.

Harold pulled a purple crayon from his pocket and blew a curl of smoke from the tip.